“Why would a person buy half of a pair of pajamas?” I asked myself. This was the third depart-ment store I had driven to and found that all three stores listed separate prices for the tops and bot-toms of a pair. I was, by this time, tired, hungry and frustrated. Replacing one’s old flannel PJs is not my idea of “fun” shopping. “Fun” shopping is searching for the perfect present for someone else, or buying something you really want but don’t necessarily need.
I approached a sales clerk, “Excuse me, which tag shows the correct price for this pair of pajamas: the tag on the top or the tag on the bottom?” Helpfully I held up both tags. The clerk, a squarish woman with suspiciously dark black hair, who reminded me of my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Pingrey, gave me a penetrating look over the rims of her glasses.
She snatched the pajamas from me, looking at each tag and pronounced, “Twenty-nine-ninety-five…and…twenty-ninety-five.”
“No, no; what I am asking is which tag is the price for the PAIR of pajamas.” Frowning, the clerk tilted her head and regarded at me as if I were a strange bird.
“The TOP costs twenty-nine-ninety-five and the BOTTOMS costs twenty-ninety-five.” She said this more slowly and in a louder tone in case I had a hearing deficit.
“Wait…twenty-nine-ninety-five plus twenty-ninety-five…is…fifty dollars and ninety cents?”
“Plus tax,” said the clerk in what I took to be a smug tone.
No one can say that I am “rough” on pajamas; I keep them for years. I was certain that the last time I bought a pair they cost thirty dollars. I squinted at the clerk, who tilted her head towards her other shoulder and folded her arms. She appeared to be digging in for a fight.
“Not worth it,” I thought and spent the rest of the day covering the ground from Nordstrom’s to Walmart and everything in-between, only to find that pairs of pajamas were no longer sold. I could, of course, sleep in long-sleeved T-shirt and sweatpants, but I felt that a gauntlet had been thrown down. “I mean, what’s next? Shoes sold separately; pants legs each sporting a price? What about scissors and pliers?” I raged inwardly. In each successive store, I vented my spleen before sur-prised sales clerks, voicing my outrage to other shoppers who eyed me suspiciously before moving away.
Having run out of stores, I went back to my car to re-group and sulk. How could this have hap-pened? I pictured America sleeping snugly in old flannel pairs of PJs, innocent of the tidal shift that was about to crash down in loungewear. I imagined it all, as if it were a play:
THE PAJAMA GAMES
FADE IN:
SCENE: A conference room in a forty-story office building
THE BOSS: The old man in the group, overweight, slightly balding, forty-ish, slumps in his chair at the head of a conference table.
HIS STAFF MEMBERS (or HSMs): various grunts in their twenties, staring dazedly at their lap-tops. They are exhausted, having spent hours unsuccessfully brainstorming about raising profits in the area of lingerie. THE BOSS is angered by their feeble ideas.
FEMALE TEAM MEMBER with fire in the belly (or FIB): Brunette, Harvard Business School
FIB: “I have another idea,”
HSMs turn their listless faces towards her. Dramatically, The FIB turns her laptop to face THE BOSS. The screen shows an awkwardly drawn pair of pajamas and an equal sign followed by a dollar sign. Everyone’s bloodshot eyes widen as, with a few clicks of the keyboard, the pajama tops separate from the bottoms. Another equal sign and dollar sign appear next to the now-halved pajama set.
FIB: “We’ll sell the tops separately from the bottoms, charge the same price for the top alone as we did for the pair and charge only slightly less for the bottoms.” (Dollar signs on her screen flash red).
THE BOSS : (musing) “Yes…Yes…Brilliant! Divide and conquer!” (yelled with fist in the air). THE BOSS smiles. HMs all smile.
HSMs: (Jubilantly seconding him), “Divide and conquer!” (They join in THE BOSS’s salute and jump to their feet. A champagne cork is heard popping somewhere in the room.)
FADE OUT
I had worked myself into a state of moral indignation. I would sew my own p.j.s! “I can be at the fabric store on Rt.1 in half an hour if they’ve finished the road construction. Then, I’ll need a paja-ma pattern which had better include pattern pieces for both the top and bottom. Patterns are such a rip-off these days; ten to fifteen bucks. I’ll need at least three- and one-half yards of flannel, which costs five to seven dollars a yard. “
My whole afternoon had been spent hunting for a pair of p.j.s. I pulled out of the mall parking lot into rush-hour traffic. “And it should take me about an hour or so to pin and cut out the pattern pieces…Then maybe a day and a half to sew the pajamas.” I swallowed, but my throat made a dry little squeaking sound. Sitting in traffic for an hour gave me time to reflect and cool down. I began to wonder if I should really expect myself (or anyone else) to go to so much trouble and expense for less than fifty-nine dollars and ninety cents, the total cost of the top and bottoms I had asked about.
I slept soundly that night, having returned to the first store, where I bought two new pair (two tops and two bottoms) of flannel pajamas; one to replace my old worn-out pair and one to put away as a hedge against inflation. I think of it as an investment. The cost of manufacturing can only go up.
